


Maybe

by Defnotmeyo



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s04e22 Elegy, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 11:53:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10189352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defnotmeyo/pseuds/Defnotmeyo
Summary: Maybe she's sicker than he thought.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was for txf-fic-chicks challenge on tumblr.

“Maybe Harold is sicker than we thought he was.”

Well fuck me, right? Two years ago, maybe even last year, there was the potential for most of the shit that comes out of my mouth to piss her off. But none of it was ever taken literally, or as an accidental personal attack. Scully is… most likely… sicker than I thought she was. And that makes me a horse’s ass.

I walk such a thin line with her it’s infuriating. I care too much, I don’t care enough. There’s a desk I could get for her but it doesn’t fit in the god damn office. If I nail her name to the door, it’s a silly gesture and I’m going out of my way. But god forbid I, as the senior agent, task her. God forbid I fucking do that. Because the second I do, she’s got a damn tattoo and is fucking a guy that looks… Well he looks a whole lot like me.

If that isn’t symbolism, then I don’t know what is. 

And if you think for a second that I haven’t profiled the shit out of my partner, you’re as ignorant as me. I’m an Oxford educated psychologist, and a BSU Golden Boy. I figured about 85% of Dana Scully out the second she stepped in my door. 

It’s the other 15% that tied me down, confused the shit out of me, and fellated me until I couldn’t get it up anymore… figuratively. 

“Maybe Harold is sicker than we thought he was.”

Fuck me. She’s in the bathroom right now and I know the sounds. I don’t have to be by the door to hear it. I’ve been in twenty hotel rooms now hearing her pitch dinner into the toilet. Scully is probably rough as hell in the sack but her gag reflex is for the birds. She’s in the bathroom the second she feels that blood tickle itself down her flamingo sized neck.

But I’ve refused to believe it with the same vehemence she’s refused to acknowledge it. We’ve drug each other into case after case, ditch after ditch, pursuing the faded ghost we thought was the truth. The truth is Fuck You Mulder. 

Yeah Fuck Me. 

Except every time, I think those words now, her voice bounces in my head. “Not everything is about you Mulder. This is my life.” Yes. Yes, it is. But it’s my work. My work is my life. It’s my life. And you’ve fucking buried yourself in every little piece of it, haven’t you, Scully?

I look at the first year of files and see Diana trickle away. Scully only grows stronger in each file. She’s killed people for me. 

“Maybe Harold is sicker than we thought he was.”

I’m a good-looking man. I’ve never had to try before. With anything. And here is the truly fucked up part. You ready? I’ve never had to try before with a woman who wasn’t in my league. And that first year together? I actually thought I was out of Dana Scully’s league. So I never hesitated to hold my arrogance in check, no matter how often she threw it back. 

It wasn’t until almost half way through that year I realized she wasn’t just my equal, but maybe even a head above me. And then she was gone. And it hit me that I had a partner again. One that had been trying to insinuate me into her life rather than press me out. Still, I’d been fucked over before. After she came back, I didn’t want to let her in. But Scully kept trying, kept twisting that little knife in my side.

And now? Well now, apparently, even more so than I thought, she’s sick as shit.

“Maybe Harold is sicker than we thought he was.”

I wish I could jam my own fist down my throat until I shut the fuck up.

“I know what you’re afraid of. I’m afraid of the same thing.”

But ya know… her doctor said she was fine. As fine as you can be with a tumor that butts up against the first or second most important organ in your body.

When I get home, when I sink down on my couch, I tug my cheeks in between my teeth. I clinch down on my jaw. My eyes are so god damned dry I almost scope out the Visine. I can feel my breath heaving. I am dry crying and it’s humiliating. Thank whatever deity you chose that I don’t come home to someone at night. 

Herold was very much sicker than we thought he was, Scully, but are you? What are you doing tonight? Soaking in that tub with three quarters a bottle of wine killed? How does that work out with your pain meds? It’d be pretty peaceful, no? To sink right on down?

“Maybe Harold is sicker than we thought he was.”

And eternity later, on my couch, I rack my slide. Eject. Rack. Eject. Each time I chamber a bullet, I like to think back. Especially after that fourth or fifth beer. Modell. Rack. Eject. Your sister. Rack. Eject. My dad. Rack. Eject. Your dad. Ha. Not even my fault. Rack. Eject. Misfeed. Whoops. Was bound to do that eventually.

Harold was almost certainly sicker than we thought.

As I pulled out the bloody, wadded-up Kleenex in my pocket, it hits me like a paper thin brick. 

Dana Scully is sicker than I thought. 

Dana Scully is sicker than I thought.

Dana Scully is sicker than I thought.

Rack. Eject.

Rack. Eject.

Rack.

Eject.

Rack.

Eject.

Rack. It’s locked back. Chamber’s empty. Brass is on the living room floor. 

Fuck. I guess I have to try to keep going tonight. 

Maybe Scully is sicker than I thought she was.


End file.
